


Darling, Let's Not Go To Guildford...

by abbichicken



Category: The Good Life, The Good Life | Good Neighbors
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Presents, Comedy, Drinking, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Silly, Snow, Snowed In, Yuletide 2013, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 23:16:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1099712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbichicken/pseuds/abbichicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The chickens are sure there's snow coming, but Margo's heard otherwise, and is determined that Christmas will go just exactly as planned this year. Of course it doesn't, and, as ever, it's lucky she and Jerry have the best neighbours one could hope for...and a well-stocked cocktail cabinet...</p><p>Please forgive any snow-based inaccuracies/impossibilities - it's Christmas!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darling, Let's Not Go To Guildford...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OzQueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OzQueen/gifts).



"No, Barbara, Mrs. Dooms-Patterson says it's going to be quite mild and we mustn't give into the tabloid scare-mongering."

"Have it your way Margo, I just thought I'd let you know..."

"If it's all the same to you, I trust a well-connected source rather more than I do your _chickens_."

" _Is_ Mrs. Dooms-Patterson well-connected? Meteorologically-speaking?"

Margo looked aghast. "Why, Barbara, her godson is very high up in the BBC!"

"I see," Barbara said, not seeing any relevance at all, but knowing better than to argue, particularly when there was so very much to be getting on with. Mrs. Dooms-Patterson might have her thoughts on the matter, but she knew a good snow brewing as well as anyone there, and the chickens, well, they were always right about the weather. "Well, Margo, Merry Christmas to you, and do come over on Boxing Day, won't you?"

"That would be _lovely_ ," Margo said, and she leant over and kissed Barbara fondly on both cheeks before tip-tapping back into her house.

"Give our regards to the Fotherington-Smythes now, won't you?" Barbara called after her, deliberately too late. It was, she thought to herself, _such_ a relief that Tom had got himself out of that company so she didn't have to give over another moment to these ridiculous, faux-celebratory hobnobbing occasions.

Barbara shook her head to herself, and went back to battening down the hatches and stocking up the chicken feed. Margo and Jerry would be lucky if they could get to their car tomorrow, never mind start it, much less drive all the way over to Guildford, but when Margo has her mind set on something, there's no getting through to her.

* * *

"What are you _doing_?" Barbara asked, as she so often did, on entering her kitchen.

"Nononono don't look!" Tom said, shifting himself dramatically around the table in a most characteristic state of keen panic.

"Oh Tom, we said no presents this year!"

"Now now, don't get excited, it's just a little something I...well, you'll see. But no looking! My wrapping is masterful and you're disturbing it."

"Fair enough," Barbara said. "I'm going to have a wash, and then I'm going to sit by the fire and have a nice glass of peapod burgundy by the Christmas tree before I pluck and stuff the chicken for tomorrow."

"Ah yes, about that..."

"Oh, _Tom_..."

"You see, I was going to, er, sort out, as it were, Miranda for tomorrow, but then she looked at me with those big beady eyes, and made that little clucking sound, and I said, alright then, I'll take Josephine, and then she went over to Josephine, and I would swear to you, she stood right in front of her as if to say, 'Over my dead body!' and I just, well, I thought..."

"'Let Barbara do it?'"

"No, but...well initially...but, why don't we just have the sprouts? And we've plenty of parsnips and potatoes and onions and all... Besides, we might want to keep hold of the chickens, if the weather's going to be as bad as they seem to think."

"Right," Barbara agreed, with as little enthusiasm as it's possible to convey whilst still agreeing. "I'm going to have a wash. And then I'm going to have a drink. Will you be joining me, or will whatever you're up to take you the rest of the night?"

"I'll just finish this, and then I'll be with you..."

* * *

"Snow's falling," Tom said, coming into the living room quite some time later. "Wonder if we ought to get the pigs in?"

"They're already in," Barbara said. "All cooped up all cosy."

"It's heavy stuff. We could..."

"What, bring them into the kitchen?"

Tom pulled a face that said, yes, actually, that's just what I was thinking.

"We can't bring them into the kitchen!" Barbara wasn't entirely sure she meant that, but it came out anyway.

"It is terribly cold out there, and the snow's mounting right up on the pen..." Tom looked so terribly concerned, bless him.

"We can't have them freezing to death..."

"...or suffocating..."

"Should we...maybe..."

"How about in here?" Tom said, looking around. "We could fix up a nice little corner here and box them in a bit, they'd be quite cosy and it isn't like there's anything worth damaging..."

"And then we can put the chickens in the kitchen!" Barbara said, with a sizeable smile.

"I do love you," Tom said. "Let's get to it!"

* * *

"I say, that snow's really coming down now," Jerry said, tightening the belt of his dressing gown as the clock chimed ten. "Are you sure about Guildford? We could just, well, cancel...I really don't fancy the A3 in this weather, and they'll hardly have bothered with the grit on Christmas Eve..."

"Now Jerry, we don't let the whims of the workers dictate our Christmas." Margo was all tucked up in bed in her best green nightgown with the high lace collar. With her hair all pinned up around her head, she rather had the look of an angel inside a Christmas tree, rather than on top of it.

"I just think it would make a little bit more sense to -"

"You _know_ what Mrs. Dooms-Patterson said. You mark my words, Jerry, it'll be gone by morning, and you shall drive us to our dinner, and we will have a magnificent Christmas and I shall wear my very best hat."

"Yes, darling..." Jerry said. Something caught his eye outside, next door, and he muttered "What the..." but ate the rest of his words for fear of Margo getting all wound up about anything else. As it was, with plans in jeopardy, the tension in the house was, well, not _un_ festive, because what could be more festive than a slice of weather-related uncertainty, but it was certainly thick, and unpleasant.

But what _was_ that outside? He squinted through, as if that would help. Some sort of scuffling in next door's garden - definitely Tom and Barbara, at least, that much he could tell (no celery thieves again). Ah well, all this snow wasn't going to be much fun for them either, poor sods. More fool them...

Jerry sighed as he closed the curtains. They might be fools out there, he thought, as he hauled himself into bed and gave Margo her customary kiss goodnight, but at least they didn't have to spend tomorrow crawling all the way to Guildford to crawl all over Sir, Sir's cronies, and their doubtless ingratiatingly unpleasant hosts.

* * *

"Barbara!"

"Tom?"

"Come and look at this!"

"Is it the pigs? What have they done?" Barbara was sat bolt upright in bed with the panicked look of a woman who's suddenly remembered her peapod burgundy-fuelled decision to bring the pigs indoors.

"It's not the pigs.." Tom said. "No, the pigs are fine. And the chickens. Good as gold, the lot of them. No, it's a bit...more interesting than that. Have a look out of the window..."

Barbara did so, and was surprised to find that she now appeared to be on the ground floor. There was snow, well, everywhere. The tops of the lampposts stuck out, and the second floors of down the road, but all the cars, all the road, everything, all gone beneath the most enveloping drifts of snow she had ever seen.

"Oh!" was about all she could manage, as a childlike excitement at being snowed in on Christmas Day rose up inside her.

She did a small celebratory lap of the bedroom before running downstairs just to double-check on the pigs.

* * *

"Jerry! Jerry!"

"Yes dear?"

"Someone's at the door..."

"Impossible!" Jerry said, hardly moving from the settee I showed you this morning, it's drifted right up past the frame! No, we'll be here for the day..."

"I tell you, someone's knocking on the door..."

"Perhaps it's Father Christmas with a large bottle of brandy..." Jerry said, settling back and taking another swig of his champagne. What? It's not like he was going to be driving anywhere that day, no, not a chance. And was especially fortunate that, this year, he'd had the foresight to get some drink and some cheese in. No, there weren't going to be any visitors at the door, and there wouldn't be any tiresome A3, and there would be only blessed drink and the chance, perhaps, to catch up on a couple of those books that Margo wouldn't let him read at the pool on their last holiday because she said their covers were 'too loud', whatever that meant.

But Margo knew there was someone there, and then, as the someone began to shout, she knew still better who it was. In a moment, the idea of a miserable, trapped Christmas vanished, for, if there was a way in, there must surely also be a way out! Her chance to socalise was back! After all, whilst the idea of spending a day with Jerry, just the two of them together, had its...high points, it lost something of its sparkle and charm when they were trapped like rats without any smoked salmon, or canapes, or without even

She flung open the door, to be greeted by a panting, bright red figure, brandishing a wimpish-looking shred of mistletoe.

"Merry Christmas!" it wheezed.

"Oh TOM!" Margo squealed. She absolutely leapt at him and threw her arms around his neck, which was difficult, given that he was crouched rather uncomfortably at the business end of a rudimentary tunnel.

"Mmmmf," Tom said, stumbling a bit. Margo retreated, brushing her dress down rather fervently. "It's nice to see you too, Margo...put the kettle on, will you?"

"Yes, yes of course...wait, stop!" Margo remembered herself. "For heavens' sake, wipe your feet and brush your...everything off, goodness, you're covered in snow..."

"Yes'm!" Tom said, saluting and duly shaking himself like a dog. "Where's Jerry?"

"Tom?" Jerry answered, from the other room. "How the devil..."

"Tunnelled!" Tom said, presenting himself proudly.

"The great escape, eh?" Jerry chuckled,.

Tom sort of nodded and continued to grin. "Drinking already?" he asked, with a more than hopeful hint in his voice.

"Yes yes, not going anywhere today, thank g-"

"Jerry!" Margo trilled, ever-present.

" _Such_ a pity..." Jerry modified, quickly. "Anyway, want one?"

"Will do actually, if you don't mind Jerry. Perishing out there! Think my fingers have gone quite blue."

"Right-o," Jerry said, levering himself off the settee and concocting away.

"Lovely," Tom said, standing in the midst of the Leadbetters' house like a Christmas lemon. "Are you going to ask me to sit down?"

Margo swept back in, transformed from the ghostly gownwearing state she'd been in before, dressed up to the nines, or possibly even the tens, in a superbly purple affair, pleated in a thousand places and accented with the most enormous string of pearls.

"Jerry!" Margo said, this time in clearest reprimand. "You're not a bit ready!"

"What?"

"Well, we must leave! We can still make it in time..."

"Have you gone quite mad? Jerry said, sitting himself back down on the settee defiantly. "We couldn't make it to the high street in time..."

"Oh Margo," Tom said, putting a hand around her waist and pulling her slightly too close which she smiled about for a moment, but then pulled away with a bit of a throat-clearing, "Margo, Margo, Margo."

"It's just our house, though, isn't it? It's not..."

"It's the worst snow there's ever been, just like the chickens said it would be. Haven't you looked out of the upstairs windows?"

"No, no I haven't. I don't want the chickens to be right. But...it simply can't be snowing this much. Not in Surbiton!"

"Would you like to see my tunnel?" Tom said, as if it might be reassuring.

"No! No, I would not like to see your blasted tunnel. I would like to see smoked salmon starters and a full turkey roast and I would like to fulfill our social obligations! Oh _Jerry_..."

Jerry gave Tom a bit of a look, and Tom gave a sort of non-committal smile in return, and so Jerry gave him another look accompanied by a 'shove off?' gesture.

"Oh! Yes. Right. Shall I come back in a bit then? I'll bring Barbara, of course.."

"What for?" Margo said, pausing her upset momentarily.

"Dinner, of course! You must have something in the freezer, Margo..."

"Certainly not! I shall have roast turkey and smoked salmon and..."

Jerry repeated his 'shove off' gesture. "Come back in an hour, I'm sure we can rustle up something between us."

"Brilliant! I'll bring the sprouts, then."

"Do that, do that..."

Tom left them as Jerry attempted a consolatory embrace (without putting down his champagne). His tunnel looked rather magnificent, he thought, as he clambered his way back around.

"Margo and Jerry have invited us over for dinner!" he said, on his return. Barbara, on her third cup of tea so far, a chicken on her lap and a pig at her feet, was still smiling like, well, like it was Christmas Day. At the invitation, she looked overjoyed.

"I bet they've got something good! Poor old Margo - she doesn't have much luck, does she?"

"What do you mean, luck? She's got us!"

"True, true. And we have got her a marvellous present this year..."

"That we have!"

* * *

By the time Barbara made her way through the tunnel, dressed in her best jeans and a rather colourful top and scarf ensemble, Margo had perked up a little: the house was cosy, packed with snow as it was, and, when she wasn't able to look out of the window at regular intervals, she found herself noticing all sorts of little things about her own home that she hadn't seen in quite some time.

"Don't you look...festive..." Margo said. " _Do_ come in." She had tried her very best to evoke the sense of event, and remained resolutely in the purple pleated piece with the pearls. Jerry had, of course, been coerced into putting a decent suit on. With shoes.

Dinner was a rather daft affair. It was mostly potatoes and parsnips, although Barbara did her best to bring festive cheer by slicing and dicing the potatoes into the shapes of Christmas trees in some instances. The sprouts were delicious, she proclaimed, but did little to sate her need for turkey, and, she said, having thought of yet another thing she was sure to have had in Guildford, for avocado mousse.

"All those animals..." Jerry said, "and you've not the guts to kill any of them, even when they're needed most..."

Tom held up the carving knife. "Are you volunteering?"

"If you'd asked me this morning, I might just have said yes for the promise of some good roast pork for lunch..."

"At least you've got a tree this year," Tom said, changing the subject and gesturing to the fine pine in the corner, immaculately dressed with Victorian-style decorations and very tastefully slim tinsel.

"Yes Tom, yes I have. Thank you."

"Flattery gets me everywhere, eh?" Tom said, and Margo made the small, blushing exclamation of someone who's just been nudged under the table. Shortly afterwards, Tom did the same, and Barbara gave Margo a raised eyebrow of a look, and Jerry helped himself to more parsnips.

Dessert was far better - a quite magnificent cheeseplate, with more than enough to do for later again, accompanied by a very good sherry that Barbara had won in a raffle she entered by slipping Mrs.Mountshaft half a dozen eggs, and there were chocolates beyond chocolates after that. The standard gift for 1978 in business circles appeared to be luxury chocolates, most often from Belgium (delicious), often liqueur-filled (slightly sickly after the fifth or sixth) or marzipan-based (abhorrent to Tom, but nectar itself to Barbara).

A small joke competition was arranged, but had to be abandoned when Tom and Jerry became over-excited and inappropriate, as Margo put it, so they played consequences, which was quite good, and charades, which was better, and everyone agreed that Margo's version of 'Gone With the Wind', enhanced by the swirling of the purple pleated piece, was one of the greatest they'd ever seen.

Tom fell asleep shortly after this, and Margo went to 'freshen up', and so Jerry and Barbara amused themselves by drawing creative facial hair on Tom with fountain pens, for quite a time, and he might not have noticed at all had Margo not spoiled it by announcing, "Tom, you have ink _all over_ your face," with great disapproval.

"Is it time for presents yet?" Barbara asked, eventually. Beneath the tree, she couldn't help but notice, was a vast parcel labelled, The Goods, and, well, there weren't any others. Plus she did want to give Tom her present, which, of course, she'd had all along, even though they'd agreed not to give each other anything this year.

"Oh yes!" Margo said, with a smile indicating she was certain they'd just love the gift. "Jerry!"

"What?" said Jerry, caught off-guard.

"Pardon, Jerry, not "what"."

"Pardon, then..."

"Fetch the present!"

"But it's..." Jerry gestured at the box. "Oh, anyway..." he said, going over to it.

"Now," Margo said, with a slight hint of worry coming through suddenly, "these things need work...so...I thought you'd like to do that, rather than us making a mess of things, so I've put everything together and I do hope you enjoy sorting it out!"

Jerry kicked the box towards Tom and Barbara, and, eventually, it was with them. They could see when he kicked it when they each poked it, inquisitively, for it was terribly heavy.

"Exciting!" Tom proclaimed, and Barbara made noises of agreement. Tom started to unpick the tape on one side very carefully, but Barbara told him not to be so silly and they set upon it, tearing at paper like mad things and not stopping until, several layers in, they found themselves looking at a sizeable, rustyish, metal chest.

"It's treasure!" Barbara said.

"Aarrrrr!" Tom concurred.

They opened the chest, with only a little difficulty, and then both gasped. It was, indeed, a kind of treasure. Metal of all kinds, old tools, pieces of...stuff, nails, screws, needles, and at least one kind of knife...the Goods looked down into the vat of what was best defined as 'one man's junk', and then up at their neighbours, and Tom clapped, in the style of true applause, because he honestly couldn't think of a thing to say. Mostly because he was busy trying to think of things that could be achieved with all of the different pieces of metal in there...he might just be able to fix the boiler with that loopy-looking one, and perhaps he could arrange a cunning pulley system with the eyelets and the hooks...

"...wonderful!" Barbara was saying. "Oh, you _do_ know us so well...now Tom, put the lid back on and we'll go through it together when we get back...don't want to get rust on the carpet!"

Tom looked like a child who'd been given a shiny new toy and then told to put it away. But then, he sat straight up like a man who's just remembered a thing and announced, "I'd like to give Barbara my gift," with great seriousness. He disappeared briefly, and then reappeared with a tiny brown parcel in his hand. "Careful now!" he said, handing it to Barbara.

"Tom? Is this...onion skin?"

"Yes!" Tom said, clapping his hands together. "Isn't it good?"

"It...must have taken you ages..." The onion skin was held in place, sort of, with rather a lot of garden twine. "Very thoughtful."

Eventually, she got through one end of it...and pulled out, with absolute triumph, a Mars bar! Margo rolled her eyes, and Jerry topped up everyone's glasses.

"Tom! You've spent money on this!"

"Not a penny, my love, no, I fixed Mr. Robertson's hinges, and he gave it me as a thank you."

"I can't remember the last time I had a Mars bar..." Barbara said, and gave Tom a kiss.

Because it was Christmas, Margo refrained from saying _Oh, for goodness' sake!_ , which was nice of her.

"I'm guessing this is mine?" Jerry said, shifting things along, pointing at a case of decidedly unwrapped bottles of peapod burgundy.

"It very much is! Shall we open one now?"

"I, er...think we'll stick with the gin a little longer, if it's all the same to you..."

"Fair enough!" Tom said. "My turn then!"

Tom's present was wrapped up in Barbara's apron; ingenious, yes, because there wasn't any wastage or anything, but at the same time it took just seconds to do. Tom made great play of untying the pretty bow of the strings, and unfolding the whole thing piece by piece.

"MY TROUSERS!" Tom yelled, eventually, with the type of joy one might expect a lottery winner to possess.

"They don't look very nice to me..." Margo said, concern writ large across her face.

"You clever old thing you!" Tom said, hugging the trousers tight to his chest for a moment before embracing Barbara fervently.

Margo watched in bemusement as they did that thing with their noses that always made her ever so slightly jealous, whilst at the same time knowing that she would never ever want Jerry to be so silly.

"Well, I thought, as we're not doing new things this year..." Barbara said, with a touch of bashfulness.

"Why have you given Tom a dirty old pair of trousers though?"

"I'll have you know these are my very best trousers! Or, they were until Geraldine got hold of them. But just look at them now!" Tom said, holding them up as if hoping to prove the point, but, in fact, only displaying the very inventive, largely floral patchwork which ran from crotch to ankle. "Even better than new!"

"But I don't understand..." Margo said, engulfed in despair and confusion once more.

"Don't worry Margo," Barbara said, "I don't think you need to. Why don't you open yours?"

>

"Oh yes," Margo said, reaching down and taking up the small, flat packet, wrapped in what appeared to be, to her great trauma, an old sock. "You shouldn't have..." she said, faintly.

"Open it!" Barbara commanded, not really needing to hear her excellent wrapping concept dismissed right now.

She pulled out a long piece of very thick card and unfolded it, to reveal beautifully scalloped edges and marvellous calligraphy.

"Mrs. M. Leadbetter is most cordially invited to tea with..." she paused, and looked at Tom and Barbara. "Is this a joke?"

"Absolutely not!" Tom bristled.

"Honestly Margo, it's completely genuine..."

"What is it?" Jerry asked, hoping that whatever it was, the invitation didn't extend his way.

"...to tea with _Lady Elinor Weatherington at the Manor_ on January 3rd at 3pm! I don't believe...Lady _Weatherington_?" Margo clutched the card to her chest.

"Lovely lady," Barbara said, "I met her when I was up on the heath walking the goat. She asked if I knew anyone who was 'up there' in the Surbiton community who might be interested in popping over for tea to help her make a plan of action for, oh, I don't know what, and so of course..."

"You suggested _me_ ," Margo beamed, as if it was the most obvious thing on earth. "Well, how very wonderful. I must accept immediately! Thank you, truly." Then her face fell, and she looked, concerned, at the windows. "I do hope the snow has cleared by then..." she said, with very real concern in her voice.

"Don't worry Margo!" Tom said, slapping his knee. "If it's still like this, why, I'll dig you a tunnel all the way there!"

And everyone laughed, happily.

The evening passed in a whirl of bad card games and strange drinking games (Margo turned out to be disappointingly good at Fizz, Buzz and didn't think it silly at all, and Barbara was by far the best at House of Cards, despite Jerry's attempts to sabotage her by kicking the table leg), and everyone ended up thoroughly sozzled, stuffed with five different kinds of cheese, all of the chocolates, and, later, some extremely good cocktail sausages Margo found at the back of the freezer ("Mrs. Pearson _must_ have put them there...I would never have bought such things...").

Fortunately, the snow _had_ gone by then. Indeed, it had gone by late evening on Boxing Day. The event in Guildford had, it transpired, been cancelled, and rescheduled (you can probably hear Jerry groaning from here) for the 27th. The avocado mousse was too wet, the turkey was too dry, the smoked salmon was rubbery and there wasn't anywhere near enough to drink, and Margo was very glad, after all, for the Christmas she had had, which had, against all odds, been terribly good fun. In the end.

More fortunately, the tea went swimmingly. Lady Weatherington was Margo's dream, and Barbara got to hear about all their exciting plans for the flower displays on the green next summer and the like, and it was nice, it transpired, to see such an enthused and enabled Margo, particularly one who was suddenly interested in the spreading of manure and cultivation of greenery. 

Further, the Goods and the Leadbetters agreed in advance to spend Christmas 1979 together, to prevent the derailing of plans by things like weather, or workers. Christmas dinner was prepared and frozen by December the first, and everything, they were sure, would go swimmingly...

**Author's Note:**

> Dearest recipient, many thanks for a wonderful challenge! I love, love The Good Life - I grew up by Surbiton and have watched it all my life, so it's always been my go-to comfort TV. I've had many a plot bunny for it bouncing about my brain over the years, and never a chance to write it. I hope this isn't too, er, snowily festive for you, but I couldn't resist once it'd got started :) A very Merry Yuletide to you, and all my gratitude for a most enjoyable writing time!


End file.
